The Silver Blaze
by CornishKid
Summary: Part II of The Violet Hour. A prized horse disappears from his stall the night before The Wessex Cup and his trainer is found brutally killed. A suspect is taken into custody and charged, and the case appears to be closed. But then, why would Sherlock Holmes bother leaving his flat? Sequel to The Dancing Men. SPOILER ALERT FOR SEASON 3.
1. Prologue

"But the question yeh really gotta ask yerself is, do I feel lucky," the older man muttered intensely. He leaned forward slightly. "Well, do yeh?"

"Aw, Ned. Knock it off with the Clint Eastwood impressions, would yeh?"

"Just havin' a bit o' fun," Ned grumbled. He pushed several chips towards the center of the table.

"Well, Jake, are you in or out?"

The young man sitting across from Ned furrowed his brow intently, staring at the cards in his hands. He glanced up at Ned, who smirked. Jake's eye twitched, and he pushed his chips toward the center of the table.

"All in," he said.

The men around the table whooped and cheered. The man who'd scoffed Ned frowned.

"Are you sure, Jake? That's two weeks' wages -"

"Sure," said Jake quickly.

Ned laughed and laid his cards out on the table.

"Four of a kind," he said triumphantly. Several of the men groaned. "Hand over the chips -"

But the corners of Jake's mouth twitched. He calmly set his own cards on the table.

"Royal flush," he muttered.

There was an eruption of cheers. Ned's face was frozen for a moment in his ridiculous toothy grin. This quickly melted away into fury as Jake swept chips into hi hand.

"You cheated!" Ned cried.

"He won fair and square," said the other man.

"Shut up, Ross!"

"If you can't pay all at once," said Jake, "I'll take installments."

"Why you -"

Several men had to grab Ned by the back of his shirt to hold him back from lunging across the table at Jake.

"I think you'd better turn in for the night," Ross said wisely to Jake. The younger man narrowed his eyes, but said nothing as he rose from his chair and exited the lounge.

Jake took a long inhale of the cool night air as he stepped outside. It had been very difficult for him not to lose his temper inside; he despised each and every one of those men. They were disgusting, vile excuses for human beings. Ned was the worst - the man, apart from being a complete slob, was dumb, greedy, and cruel. Yes, Jake hated him worst of all. But now he had leverage over the man. There was no way he was going to let Ned slide on a five hundred pound debt. Unless he cleaned Jake's stables for a month...

No. Jake definitely wanted the money.

Back at the stable, Jake did a quick check of each of the stalls to ensure they were locked tight. Most of the occupants were sound a sleep, though a few of the horses gave impatient huffs when he fiddled with the locks. Jake didn't have to look in on them - he was technically only responsible for one - but he enjoyed ogling the beautiful creatures nonetheless. Even in sleep they were majestic, like something out of a fantasy novel. Their coats shone brightly in the moonlight that trickled in through the windows. How could they be so peaceful on this night? Did they not realize that the biggest day of their lives was fast approaching? Jake knew several of the jockies were busy tossing and turning in their beds, or else drinking deeply at the local pub to settle their nerves.

Then he arrived at his stall, where his charge jerked awake and sniffed the air as he approached. _Silver Blaze_ flicked his tail when he locked eyes with Jake. It was his form of salute.

"Hello, gorgeous," said Jake softly, unlocking the door. "Big day tomorrow."

It was indeed. The following morning, when the jockey ventured into the stall, he found _Silver Blaze _missing, and Jake lying on the ground facing up, his blank and lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.


	2. Chapter 1

John Watson was a patient man. He always had been, and it was a skill he'd nearly perfected after years of dealing with the world's only consulting detective and the endless violin playing, the insults, the forgetting to do the shopping, the getting into cabs without checking to make sure John was behind him, and the "Dear God, Sherlock, what's in the fridge _now_?"s. He deserved another medal, really, for all the things he'd put up with over the years.

All that patience evaporated into nothing at the words that had just passed from his former flatmate's mouth.

"You want to do _what _to my daughter?" John cried.

In her car seat, Abby gurgled and drooled over the fist that was stuffed in her mouth.

"It's a simple test, John," Sherlock explained. "I've just finished reading about it It has to be done before she begins talking, and -"

"For God's sake -"

"- soaked for three hours in -"

"- Sherlock, if you say one more -"

"- and then test her motor reflexes -"

" - I swear, I will reach my hand so far down your throat -"

"- in order to accurately predict her projected IQ," Sherlock finished. "It's completely harmless, though I admit, rather unpleasant. Luckily, she won't remember -"

"Sherlock, you are not experimenting on my child," said John firmly.

"It's not an _experiment_, John," said Sherlock. He was barely able to stop himself rolling his eyes, which was good, because if he had John very well might have lost it. "It's a test. The results of said test will provide me with the data I need to recommend dietary supplements that will maximize the development of her mental faculties."

"She is seven months old, Sherlock. She can develop her mental faculties at any rate she bloody well pleases."

Sherlock scowled.

"But she's so incredibly _slow_," he whined.

"She's a baby, you twat."

As if emphasizing this fact, Abby emitted a small shriek of, "Gabode!"

"Oh, forget it." Sherlock flung himself onto the couch, his blue robe fanning out beneath him. "Odds are, she's inherited your slow wits anyway. If she had half Mary's brain, she'd already be forming real words."

"Eepo!"

"My thoughts exactly, Abby."

John took a deep breath to steady his temper. The immediate danger, at least, was over.

"Are we going to find you a case, then?" he asked.

"A what?"

"A case," said John. "That's why I'm here, isn't it? To find you a case so that you can stop fantasizing about soaking babies in -"

"I have a case," said Sherlock indignantly. "Richard Brook, remember?"

"Right." John gazed around the flat, at the half-full beakers smoking in the kitchen and the books scattered all around the living room. According to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had spent half the morning searching for his secret cigarette stash again. John figured he must have deleted the memory where he'd given them to John to chuck out a week earlier.

"What time is Violet coming?" Sherlock demanded.

"She should be here any minute," said John, "and you're done interrogating her. She didn't know anything two months ago, she won't know anything now."

"No need for questioning. I've already hacked her e-mail account in case 'Richard Brook' tries to get in touch with her again-"

"Sherlock!"

"It might also interest you to know that her 'gallery manager' is really a five foot-eight guitar player with a rather large -"

"What Violet does on her own time is none of my business," said John quickly.

"Just thought I ought to tell you. She lied to you last week when she said she couldn't watch Abby because the gallery manager wanted a new mural design."

"Again," said John, "not my problem."

"You don't care that your nanny is a liar?"

"It was a Friday night," said John, "she's a young woman, and if she doesn't want me knowing the details of her private life, that's fine by me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"You won't allow me to perform a _harmless _test on dear Abigail - I, who you have known for nearly half a decade - yet you'll leave her in the company of a woman you've known for less than three months. This same woman, I have told you, lied to you when you needed her to perform the duty you hired her for."

John sunk into his chair, rubbing his temples.

"_You _told me to hire her," he pointed out. "Did you forget that?"

"Certainly not," said Sherlock. "Of all the applicants, she was by far the most qualified."

"And as long as we're going along with your argument, let's remember that _you _lied to me, too. For two years."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Which I have apologized for more times than was necessary, given the offense committed," he said.

"Let's let me be the judge of that," said John. "All things considered, I'm still on Violet's side."

"Thanks for that."

Violet had appeared inside the sitting room; her soft brown hair looked windswept and her cheeks were slightly flushed. John looked to Sherlock, who had suddenly sat up straight on the sofa, fixing Violet with his penetrative stare.

"How's _Lars_?" he asked pointedly, meeting John's eyes with a look that said plainly, _Watch how clever I'm about to be_.

"Married," said Violet tonelessly. "You already knew that, though. Oh, and I've changed my password _again_." She raised her eyebrows, looking a bit amused. "You do know you're not supposed to reply to messages when you hack someone's account, right? Tends to give you away."

Sherlock shrugged.

"He was an idiot. I couldn't resist pointing it out."

"I'm sure."

Violet turned to John.

"Mary said she'd pick Abby up later - and no, Sherlock, I haven't heard anything about the painting -"

"I wasn't going to -"

"Yes, you were, it's written all over your face."

"Someone's moody today."

Violet looked at John imploringly. He could barely muster a shrug in response.

"I'm leaving," she announced, making a move to grab Abby's car seat. From her pocket, a loud _ping _went off. She froze, suddenly very tense. Her hesitation lasted for only a second before she gave a slight shake of her head and resumed her trajectory towards Abby.

"What was that?" Sherlock demanded at once.

"Do the word's 'it's personal' hold any meaning with you?" she said as she tossed Abby's diaper bag over her shoulder.

"Not at all," said Sherlock.

"Didn't think so, but it was worth a shot anyway." She turned to John. "Goodbye, I'll see you later."

"See you," said John.

"I'll see you later, too!" Sherlock called down the stairs.

"Hope not!" came her reply.

As soon as they heard the downstairs door slam, John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

"Why do you insist on doing that to people?" he asked.

"Do what? I was making conversation -"

"No, Sherlock. You were prying. People don't like to have their lives pried into."

"Dull. People are dull. The lot of them. I couldn't care less what they like."

"'Course you couldn't." John sighed. "Can we just find you a case, please? That ought to spare everyone's sanity for a bit."

"Bring it up, then," said Sherlock as he flung himself back onto the sofa. He motioned for John to use his laptop, which was sitting open on the table. John crossed to it - the screen flickered to life when he touched the mousepad.

"Jesus - Sherlock!" John gasped. "_This _is what you wanted to bathe Abby in?"

"How many times do I have to tell you - _harmless_."

"That's not the - oh, forget it!" John quickly closed the window, trying very hard not to gag on the bile that had wormed its way up his throat. Then he hastily made his way to Sherlock's website.

"Only read the interesting ones," Sherlock mumbled, already sounding bored.

"You and I have different definitions of interesting," John pointed out.

This fact became apparent very quickly. Sherlock dismissed every single case John fed him. Usually with a flick of his hand, sometimes with an annoyed grunt, and very rarely with a few quick deductions that would break the proposed case.

"Grandmother filed away money each year to an offshore account under the pretense of donating money to the hospital to fund her grandson's treatment. Charitable donations can be deducted -"

"So she'd get back money every year on her return," John muttered. "That's brilliant... And terrible. Where is she now, then?"

"Not dead, obviously," said Sherlock, "otherwise why bother? No, she's probably retired to a nice little island in the Caribbean with her secret lover. That was their plan all along."

"Okay," said John. "I'm not going to bother asking how you worked out the bit about the lover. We're out of cases, anyway."

"Out of cases!" Sherlock cried.

"Well, the one about the missing cancer patient _was_ rather interesting -"

"No, it wasn't! He was selling the treatment on the black market. Injected himself with various serums to mimic the symptoms, got himself admitted to the hospital, faked his death, and -"

"Why bother selling medication in a country with free health care?" John pointed out.

"It's not free everywhere in the world," said Sherlock.

"Fine, then. That means yes, Sherlock. We are indeed out of cases."

Sherlock released a frighteningly large sound of exasperation, flipped himself over onto his stomach, and punched the pillow a few times. Then his head jerked up quickly.

"Violet's probably arrived home by now," he said. "We could drive over there, collect Abby -"

"No."

"Then find me a case!"

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" John cried, pointing with sharp emphasis to the laptop.

"Another domestic boys, really?" said the shrill voice of Mrs. Hudson as she bustled into the room carrying a tea tray. "The neighbors thought they'd get a break when you moved out, John."

"Any clients come to call?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"None, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied kindly.

Sherlock shoved his face back into the pillow.

"Don't be like that, now," said Mrs. Hudson. She poured two cups and handed one to John. "Something'll turn up."

Sherlock screamed into the pillow.

"How about that race horse that went missing up in Dartmoor?" said Mrs. Hudson. "That's something, isn't it?"

Sherlock stopped screaming, but didn't lift his head.

"A missing race horse?" said John.

"Yes," said Mrs. Hudson. "I'm surprised you haven't heard - it's all over the news. The Wessex Cup was supposed to go on yesterday, but the favorite disappeared the night before, and the trainer was found dead in the stall." Mrs. Hudson was positively beaming at the pair of them. "How about that, Sherlock? A nice murder."

Sherlock propped his head up again.

"Nobody ever said it was murder," he said slowly.

"It looks rather suspicious, though," said Mrs. Hudson. "The police think they've caught the man who did it, but they still haven't been able to find the horse."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"You have money on the race, don't you?"

Mrs. Hudson looked positively offended.

"Dear, you know I don't -"

"How much?"

Mrs. Hudson opened and closed her mouth a few times.

"Alright, about a hundred quid," she admitted. "But that's only because -"

Sherlock wasn't paying any attention to her. He sprung to his feet with the agility of a jungle cat pouncing on its prey and bounded off to his room.

"I really shouldn't've," Mrs. Hudson was going on to John. "I haven't gambled in years - but everyone's been going on about this one. I couldn't resist -"

"We all have our weaknesses," said John absently. He was staring after Sherlock. "What was the name of the horse?" he asked, turning back to the computer.

"_Silver Blaze_," said Mrs. Hudson. "He's only been racing for a year, but he's already won thirty competitions."

John had typed the horse's name into the search bar. Sure enough, the first few links led him to breaking news stories about the disappearance and the mysterious death of the trainer, Jake Newman. John cringed as he read through the details of the case. Jake was only twenty years old.

"Rather sad, that," said Mrs. Hudson as she peered over John's shoulder. "He had so much potential. Everyone credits the riders when the horse does well, but it's the trainer who gets them into shape for competing."

"You sound like you know a bit about this," John observed. "Racing."

"Mr. Hudson used to take me all the time," she chirped. "Before -"  
"John!" Sherlock barked as he reemerged from his room completely dressed. "How much gas have you got in your car? We're going to Dartmoor."

"That's hours away!" John protested. "I've got plans, Sherlock -"

"No you haven't."

"I've got Abby -"

"Technically Violet has her at the moment, and Mary's picking her up tonight."

"I can't just leave without telling her -"

"Already texted her."

Sherlock threw his coat around his shoulders and popped the collar up.

"Coming? Or shall I take the train?"

"Well, I can't very well let you do that. We both remember what happened last time."

"It's not as if I _planned _for there to be a serial killer hiding in the luggage compartment."

John didn't believe him for a second. He merely chuckled under his breath and reached inside his own coat for his car keys.


	3. Chapter 2

_**A/N**: Immense apologies for the long update. I assure you, I have been writing! Really! I promise! Unfortunately, I'm not writing this story (or its sequels) in order. Much of the material I've been generating is for much later. That means longer stretches between updates for now, but quicker ones in the future. Please don't hurt me!_

_I'm also going to pull the classic excuse of being boggled down with school. That ends for me in about a month, so there's hope yet! I haven't forgotten any of you. As always, thank you for reading/favoriting/reviewing/following._

* * *

John had almost forgotten why he and Sherlock rarely took long road trips with one another. _Almost_. The first five minutes quickly brought him back up to speed.

"Why are you turning here?"

"It's the fastest way to the main road."

"Mm... No it isn't. Fewer traffic lights, I grant you, but you'll have to turn more often."

"Sherlock," John sighed, "we've discussed the issue of passenger seat driving, remember?"

He then had to resist the urge to clock the detective in the back of the head every time they got stuck in a turn lane. Sherlock didn't say anything, but he would give an impatient click of his tongue that clearly said _I told you so_.

Then, of course, there were the driving games. John sincerely regretted the time he'd taught Sherlock 'I Spy' (really, he should have learned after the incident with _Cluedo_). Sherlock had to be the Spy; he always guessed on the first try when John picked the object. He was annoyingly vague with his hints, too, and he'd get frustrated when it took John too long to figure things out.

"I Spy something green."

"We're driving through the country, Sherlock. There's grass and trees everywhere."

"It's not grass or trees."

"Wha - Sherlock, there's nothing else that's green out here!" John cried.

Sherlock sighed, obviously very disappointed.

"The recycling plant we just passed. _Green _John. Earth-friendly. Really, it was obvious."

It was going to be a long three hours.

The Wessex Cup had been scheduled to take place at the Exeter track, several miles to the East of Dartmoor Park. John had texted Mary before they'd left, explaining everything. She'd replied with a simple: _Have fun!_

The stables and track themselves were practically blocked off from all the activity. There were news cars and reporters swarming everywhere, along with tourists and people who had stopped by to see how the investigation was going. It took John nearly fifteen minutes to find a place to park. Even so, they ended up having to walk half a mile to get back to the track.

"Have we come up with a story?" John muttered to Sherlock as they pushed their way through the crowd.

"What do you mean?"

"They're not just going to let us in, Sherlock," said John. "We haven't been invited."

"Remember how Mycroft's name opens doors?"

"Yeah-"

"Mr. Holmes!"

A tall, balding man in an obnoxious mustard colored jumper had spotted John and Sherlock approaching the gate and bounded forward to let them in.

"I was wondering when you were going to stop by," said the man. "Most of the owners have already come by to check on their horses."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, taking on a voice that sounded even more posh than his usual speech. John was distinctly reminded of the elder Holmes brother. "

"I can imagine," said the man. He turned to John. "The name's Ross."

John introduced himself and shook Ross's hand.

"I expect you'll be wanting to see your horse, then?" said Ross to Sherlock. "_Redbeard_, wasn't it?"

"Actually, I'm more interested in seeing _Silver Blaze's _stable," said Sherlock.

Ross's eyes went wide.

"I - I'm sorry, sir. I can't let you do that. The investigation is going on, and -"

"I only would like to see for myself if there is a security breach, and whether there is anything my division can do about it." He added, at Ross's uncomfortable shuffling, "I promise not to interfere with any investigation."

Ross considered this for a moment.

"I doubt there's anything you need involve yourself with," said Ross, "but I suppose it couldn't hurt to let you have a look. This way -"

John and Sherlock followed Ross across the lawn to the stable. John spoke out of the corner of his mouth, so that Ross couldn't hear him.

"You bought a horse under Mycroft's name?" he muttered.

"Years ago," Sherlock muttered back. "I hardly ever check up on it, but the occasional winnings make for some nice pocket change."

"But why's it in Mycroft's name?"

"A thrilling story - well, I say _thrilling_ - for another time."

Ross had led them through the stables which were bustling almost as much as the outside. Jockies, owners, and managers swarmed around every stall; it was amazing that the horses themselves were able to keep relatively calm. At the end of the hallway ran another line of crime scene tape, blocking off the last stall. Officers and forensic analysts were scouring every inch of the place.

"Oi, Ross!" one of the pudgier detectives called when Ross lifted the tape for John and Sherlock to step under. "What's the meaning of this?"

Sherlock, in an unusual display of humility, took the glove off his right hand and extended it towards the detective.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said, returning his voice effortlessly to that perfect imitation of his brother.

"I don't care who the hell you are," said the detective. "This is my crime scene!"

Sherlock flashed John a look that plainly said _This is why courtesies are overrated._

Ross, in the meanwhile, was attempting to hurriedly explain.

"- a very important position in the government. He was here to see his horse and thought he'd have a look at the -"

"- the blatantly obviousfact that you recently found out your wife has been buggering the milkman for almost the entirety of your disappointing marriage," said Sherlock coldly, his voice returning to normal. He ignored John's warning look and Ross's confused stare, pressing on. "Apart from that, I was hoping to offer you my services, _detective_."

"Detective Inspector," the man seethed. "Hopkins. I expect you've bene prying into my personal life and came down here to humiliate me, you posh twit. Who put you up to this? Was it Trow?"

"Believe me, I have no desire to insert myself into your personal affairs," said Sherlock. "I merely noticed the wrinkles on your poorly ironed shirt and the scratches on your ring finger. You were forced to iron your own shirt, - probably for the first time in your life - this morning, and you've been desperately trying to pry that ring off your hand for the last few days but its stuck. Bit too much meat on the bone, just like the rest of you, which tells me your marriage wasn't all that exciting in the first place."

A very stunned silence followed his words. Ross still looked too stunned to speak. John became aware that he was scowling at Sherlock, albeit halfheartedly. He was impressed, as always, that Sherlock's deductions seemed to be right on the mark.

"How did he know it was the milkman?" one fo the forensic officers whispered from the back. Hopkins silenced him with a glare. Sherlock's mouth twitched amusedly.

"Elementary," he said.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft," said Ross, who had apparently regained the capacity for speech, "what's going on?"

"I'm afraid the cat's out of the bag now, Ross," said Sherlock as he shoved his glove back onto his hand. "Mycroft is my older brother. My name is Sherlock."

Ross's eyes widened in recognition.

"Sherlock Holmes," he breathed.

"Hang on," said Hopkins. "Sherlock Holmes... That cheeky detective chap from London who killed himself a few years back?" He paused, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. "You're dead."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Obviously not."

"Well regardless, I'm not letting you on to my crime scene."

"You are," said Sherlock calmly.

Hopkins snorted.

"Really? What makes you so sure?"

"Because you're desperate. Three days in to what should have been an open and closed case - because really, how can a thief get away with a stolen _horse_ for Christ's sake - you're no closer to finding an answer than you were when you started. I've just displayed my methods to you, and you've no doubt heard of my other work. You know what I'm capable of, and, most importantly, _you need me_.

A rumble went through the investigative team, suggesting they all agreed with Sherlock's analysis. Hopkins still looked more than reluctant - he looked as if he were a step away from decking Sherlock across the jaw.

"Look, you -" he began.

"You're hired."

Everyone turned in alarm at Ross's comment. The man cleared his throat.

"I'm the owner of these stables," said Ross. "This crime happened on my property. I say I'd like Mr. Homes to have a look." He added in a threatening tone to Sherlock, "We're going to have to sort out the _Redbeard_ situation when this is all finished."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John could sense the word _dull _on his lips; he only stopped because of the look John gave him.  
Hopkins looked as if he were about to have an aneurysm; the throbbing vein in his forehead certainly seemed to point in that direction. He kept darting his eyes between Ross and Sherlock until at last he gave a very curt nod.

"Fine," he said, "but you're going to have to wait until my team has finished. I don't want you tampering -"

"You're on your third sweep of the scene," said Sherlock, brushing past Hopkins and his crew to have a look in the stall. "Your team has already collected everything they think they need."

When nobody tried to stop Sherlock, Hopkins gave a frustrated grunt and stormed away, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket as he went. John exchanged a look with Ross and then followed Sherlock into the stall where the detective had already pulled out his magnifying glass and was scouring the scene.

"Where was the body taken?" John asked one of the forensic officers - the same young man who had commented on Sherlock's deduction earlier.

"Coroner had him moved to the local funeral home today - they finished the autopsy last night," said the man - Eric Payne, John saw from the badge on his suit.

John nodded and pulled his notebook and pen out from his pocket. "Cause of death?" he asked, clicking the pen.

"Blunt-force trauma to the back of the head," said Payne. "I have photos -"

Payne extracted a series of pictures from a file folder he had clutched in his hand. John took them and studied each one meticulously.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked while his was rifling through a box of horse shoes.

"Blow to the back of the head," said John. "Pretty powerful blow, too, by the look of the fracture pattern. Looks like it would have killed him instantly." He frowned. "There should have been more blood than that... Unless the killer tried to clean up after themself... He was lying here -" John gestured to a part of the floor - "so if he was struck from behind..."

John shifted around again and raised his arm above his head. He blinked, confused, and then turned to Ross.

"How tall was Jake?" he asked.

Ross furrowed his brow.

"He was a tall bloke," said Ross. "Over six feet, I reckon."

"What have you got?" asked Sherlock. He appeared suddenly at John's side and grabbed for the photographs. John released them unconsciously, still deep in thought.

"The angle of the blow... The force that would have been required to make an injury like that... The killer would have had to be much taller than Jake."

"Excellent, John," Sherlock praised.

An excited murmur went through the investigative team. They were obviously impressed by John and Sherlock's findings.

"Obviously we're looking for the Golem again," said John. He was really only half joking.

"Don't be silly, John, you were doing so well." Sherlock continued to cycle through the photographs. "I can tell you something else - the blood - you were right. There's too little of it. Jake wasn't killed here."

"What?" said Ross, his eyes widening. "That's impossible! Martin - my son - he's a stable boy. He found the body."

"It had already been lying here for hours when we arrived on the scene," Eric Payne offered. "I did the examination myself -"

"You obviously haven't been working this job very long," said Sherlock, giving Payne a quick glance. "Less than a month, in fact. This type of injury would have left a significant blood spatter pattern. As John's pointed out, there's practically nothing. No wonder you haven't been able to find anything valuable. You've all been searching the wrong crime scene."


End file.
